Thing's Left Behind
by TehPinkKitten
Summary: Johns view of the world after three years since the death of Sherlock. His blog updates has ceased. His hopes that Sherlock is alive has diminished to almost nothing. Thoughts of suicide. One-shot. T to be safe. Enjoy. Please review .


It has only been a few years since the death of my best friend had occured. Just three years since the haunting scene played out in front of me, causing me to collapse in front of him, grasping out to his wrist desperatly to feel up a pulse.

"Sherlock..." A whispered breathlessly as I snapped my head upwards, feeling the slight tears tricking down my cheek as my eyes locked with his in desperate need to hold eachother somehow. I couldn't stand to believe this was real- if any of this is real and it's just another vision I had of the hound but it isn't. No matter how many times I prayed internally, all of this is real.

"Goodbye, John." I heard Sherlock's response over the cell as his lips moved from a distance. My heart wrenched as I saw him stepped a foot near the edge. I had to do anything... God please... Anything! Move, John. Move!

"Sher-" My throat suddenly went dry, my heart pounded, my palms sweated, my eyes watered but nothing would help me now. A sudden thought of hopelessness jolted through me as I lowered my phone away from my ear after I saw him toss the phone carelessly to his right and take another step. "Sherlock!" I let out a scream, louder than I have ever done, my voice ripping through my throat, leaving a dull burning sensation.

And that's when it happened.

He spread his arms far apart like an angel would do with his wings before tipping his body forward and off the building. I watched helplessly as my eyes begin to burn until his body landed with a large thud by a laundry truck. I was dull, my body was motionless until moments later, my head shook involuntarily, my mind not believing the scene that had just played out in front of me. "No..." My eyes widened, realising that all of this is true.

I could faintly remember something crashing into me, forcing me to land on my stomach and hit my head against the pavement of the parking lot. My body refused to get up after a few moments because my mind was not yet coherent but I also remembered that there was the sound of a high-pitching ringing before I finally brought myself to my feet and rush to my dear friend who was dead.

I just sat there, recollecting my haunting memories with my elbow against the armrest, fingers gently brushing up against my rough hair, my bare feet curling against the furry rug curls. My eyes began to drag itself around the flat, wishing that one day, I would see the eyes of Sherlock, staring deep into me as I embraced him tightly.

The laptop pressing against my thigh began to overheat slowly, the heat radiating against my thigh sort of it telling me that its still on and running. I eyed it slowly though, running it against the keys, reading each letter, remembering his fingers typing away when Sherlock and I go through one of the weirdest cases in which other people would read and comment.

Now, no one would give a damn about me... Not even while I'm sulking away in my flat. The reason being is that Sherlock is a 'Fake' and even though he tried to convince me, I will never think he is a fake. He wasn't to me at least.

My fingers made it up to the keyboard lazily as the thought of creating a new post rammed into my head but that feeling of hopelessness returned and instead, I tapped a soft, steady rhythm against one of the keys and waited. It was absolutely pointless to countinue on writing a blog when everyone has already ceased on reading it. Everyone apart from Mrs. Hudson. Not even Lestrade kept his mind on me anymore and hasn't summoned me after Sherlocks death. That bastard has jumped the bandwagon, completly and uterly leaving me and perhaps Mycroft as well.

No one bothers to hire me, too. All of this as the result. I never knew everything would be so dull. This has made moving on quite difficult because I am now physically and mentally grounded to Baker Street but have the rare clients that are Sherlock believers. I snort at this because it sounds more like Sherlock was a god. People actually worshiped him and I just happen to be be his friend... His colleage... His only 'partner'. But as you already know, there are mostly non-believers but then there was Miranda, the physician who needed an assistant. I decided to give it my last shot before I decide to waste away in Baker Street.

The interview began like the others... The fraud politeness with smiles that are even more fake. Words like, "So your John Watson" and "Surprised to see your here" are difficult to tell if they meant it in a good way but the end result crashes on my face when they tell me they will call my phone if anything. They usually don't. Now, I sit here on my last interview, fingers twitching in slight nervousness as in my other hand, the tremors returned. It has been so long since I handled a gun and now I am remembering what Mycroft had said to me. I missed the battles, the struggle for survive in a feild where other people are intended to do the same. The shooting, the thrill-

I shook my head to rid of the thoughts and fisted my hand to still the sudden quake just when Miranda had looked at my resume with the blankest expression I have ever seen. She cleared her throat as if to reassure herself before her large brown eyes stared me down. I couldn't help myself by curling my lips to give her a warming smile that I never used in my interviews but something about her... She's different.

"Thank you, Dr. John Watson. I'll call you." She said, dismissing me in a such a surprising sudden politeness. My face grew hot as I blinked a few, not sure if this was real but it seems real enough to be a dream.

"Thank you." I say after a few moments as my hand made it up to my cane. I gripped it tightly as I stood, giving a shake of my head when she volunteered to help, and limped away in my normal fashion.

When I finally returned home, I took no time in removing my phone, looking out for the call like a hawk. I then began to remove my shoes in a sharp pull and leaving them by the door. I tugged down on the zipper of my coat and worked it off before placing it neatly on the coatrack before me making my way back to my seat. I sat with a heavy sigh and placed the phone on the armrest, eyes never looking away. Might as well watch crap Telly to pass the time.

The interview and the politeness had been a dream, a mere mask to cover what was true. Three days waiting for the call and I finally abandoned hope, tossing my phone carelessly by my side. Having something and having it ripped out can damage a person and I've learned by experience. Once, I never thought anything could hurt me, even the simple idea that my friend passing away couldn't hurt me because I am a soldier. The people I worked around with were my friends. Most of them died so I got used to the pain but Sherlock. He was different. He was MORE than a friend, more than a simple colleague. He was my soulmate. This is a wound I can't heal alone.

I had remembered that I needed to call Mrs. Hudson to remind her of the milk and lemons to bring. My fingers dipped by my side to find my phone but brush passed something solid and oddly cold. Out of curiousity, I grabbed it, fingers wrapping around the metal before pulling it out for my eyes to see. My eyes wandered at my gun and my mind began wondering when I put it there. I couldnt seem to remember as my fingers ran across the metal and gripping it, fingering the trigger, coming back to the time Sherlock shot the wall.

Then, an idea popped into my head, a very simple idea that can affect me greatly. What if I could put away this pain, ending once and for all, meeting Sherlock at the very top? What if I died? What if? Before I can process my thoughts correctly, I felt the end of my gun skidding against my temple. My body shook involuntarily as I let out a breathly sigh. My mind has finally succumbed to the thought that Sherlock was never comming back and that was what all it took before I was pressing at the trigger softly.

"John." A breathless voice was heard behind me. A voice that made my closed eyes snap open in disbelief. Had I've been hearing voices? Was that Sherlock from up above perhaps? Questions ceased when the sound of footsteps came crashing into me ear. I ceased my fingers as my eyes widened and the tremor in my hand vanish in an instant as I felt a warm, heavy hand press against mines that was gripping the gun. Fingers wrapped around my fist, trying to interlock with mine as it moved it's way around to my fingers and began loosening my grip one finger at a time. "Stop..." The voice returned. It was just as deep as I remembered. Finally, the grip on the gun was no longer there and the hand caught it from falling. I couldnt turn my head to see him, to let him see me with tears streaming down my face but the pad of his finger made it up to my chin in attempts to turn my face.

"You- you can't be here." I whispered in a choked sob. I couldn't hold anything back now. My head moved suddenly and looked up at him. He was here. He was actually here and not six feet under. His dark curls had been recently cut, his features were the same, rings under his eyes and his lips. God his lips are more fuller than I had remembered. I couldn't help but wimper as I felt his hand reach the nape of my neck, brushing my hair to calm me.

Words were barely said but I could read almost everything in his eyes. I could read how sorry he was, how he never wanted any of this to occur, how he wanted to come home immediatly. I forgave him easily because i understood it all. I gave him a slight nod and he curled his lips into a smile. The hand on the nape of my neck applied force and my head rushed forward, lips crashing into his suddenly. Did I pull back? Why would I do such a thing?

The kiss wasn't hot or steamy. Instead, it was a soft, welcoming one that I had soon accepted and returned the kiss, my hand slipping up to touch his face to assure myself that he's actually here. His tongue curled against mine and his body pressed against me. At that moment, I pulled back with and exhale but kept my forehead pressed against his.

"I'm sorry-"

"I know," I snorted after I cuckled. When his hand released my neck, I stood back to take a good look at him. All of that waiting paid off. All of the people not caring and all of the interviews. "Life has been hard. No one would accept me and I had been recently interviewed three days ago. No call."

"Miranda should provide you with a job. In fact, you should look at your phone." Sherlocks eyes made it to my chair as he crossed his arms in his usual fashion. I looked at him, dumbstruck as he mentioned the womans name before I could. Bloody bastard knew her before I did. I knew there was something about her that seemed... Different. "Ready to face the world once more?"

"With you by my side?" I replied quickly as I smirked. He let out a deep chuckle and nodded once. "Why not? I want the world to get a kick out of this."

"'The Fake Has Returned From the Dead' is a frightening title on the front cover of the paper. Not sure if I could handle it-"

"Is that my bloody jumper?" I exclaimed as I opened his coat and inspected it. He looked at me, widened eyes as he nodded carefully as if he was still deciding on his answer.

"Switzerland was-"

"You went to Switzerland?"

"I saw the Reichenbach Falls if you happen to know."

"Sherlock, really? I busted myself while you were sightseeing?"

"Come John, our first stop is Lestrade." Sherlock quickly changed the subject as he took my arm and began dragging me towards the door, making me scramble to put my shoes on. Before I had left the door, I looked towards my seat as I had left my cane. Before I can realize, the tremor on my hand stopped and I stopped limping. What I this affected by Sherlocks presence?

I was and so was everyone else. They are just not sure if its positive or negative. 


End file.
